Deluge
by DreamScene
Summary: Fate has them play a game of chance without knowing if they'll ever win.


A/N: Am kind of rabidly in love with DtB. And this pairing. Ugh. They're too amazing together.

Feedback: Pretty please.

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He arrives at her door like a shadow posed right out of a nightmare. The electricity is out, although she's not sure whether or not to blame him or the thunderstorm raging at her window.

"Hi," she manages as he collapses against the frame of the door.

He almost falls on her, but her outstretched arms are automatically out to catch him as her calves stiffen under the sudden weight. He's heavier than she expected, but it could be the soaked coat that's weighing him down.

"Crap," she hisses as she drags him away from the door and carefully deposits him on the floor of the hallway.

The door slams behind them when she kicks it closed with one foot.

She can barely see as she feels the walls to the kitchen, groping around in the dark until she finds a candle and something to light it up when she stumbles on a box of matches and drops about a dozen thin sticks. She burns her fingers on the first few attempts, her hands shaky and the rest of her equally unsteady.

When she walks over to him, she has to force her feet to go slow or else risk blowing out the candle in her haste.

"Shit, shit, shit," she swears.

And she finally reaches him, the swearing doesn't stop, although her spluttering does.

In the dim light the candle emits, she notices the puddle of water on her living room floor. It looks darker than it probably should be, making her panic even more as she moves to pull the black jacket off his shoulders and arms. He's not putting up any resistance, lying there like a corpse as she turns him. It feels like moving a boulder.

She tries to be gentle when she makes him lie on his back, facing her.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck."

He cannot die on her like this. Not in the middle of the night, in her house, in the middle of her fucking living room. The very real possibility of an inquisition at work doesn't really cross her mind until much, much later. Right now there's a guy she barely knows passed out cold on the floor and she's much too panicked to think of why he chose her door.

So inwardly, she pleads. In fact, she begs.

_Please._

_Don't die._

Somehow, she manages to slide off his coat while straddling his waist. It's hard to see the damage in the low light and she prays he doesn't suddenly wake up to misinterpret her actions as she shifts his clothes around. It's not the first image she wants to give him after several months of absence.

But fate has a different plan in mind as Hei suddenly opens his eyes. Even in the near darkness, they pierce her. And though she doesn't have ulterior motives concerning him, imagined date rape is not the impression she wants him to have of her.

Her hands freeze, no longer pulling on his shirt as their eyes lock. It doesn't help that her top is nearly see-through from the water that seeped into it and more than a little suggestive by candlelight.

But then his eyes close, head rolling to the side and it really makes her panic.

_No, don't you dare._

So she makes a run to the bathroom for an armful of towels and the first aid kit she immediately drops beside him. He's still breathing and she'd rather keep it that way as she works quickly to strip his clothes. His pants are undone when she finally notices the wound on his side.

It's a rather deep slash just below his ribs that doesn't stop bleeding.

She gives up trying to peel his pants off and turns him sideways.

The nearest towel is pressed against him to mop up the dark puddle she dearly hopes is mostly water. She mentally sputters four-letter words regularly as she figures out what to do next.

The lights haven't come back on yet and he's in dire need of stitches and possible surgery and _god_, he better not die on her. She's trying to keep her cool as she breathes in shakily.

There's a needle and thread she needs to get. She tries to push out Kanami's voice commenting on her bad domestic skills because A) totally uncalled for and B) she doesn't need to be distracted when this idiot's life is likely to slip away at a moment's notice.

She stumbles around in her room to find the lone shoebox with random receipts and old letters while looking for the small sewing kit Kanami gave her when she came back from one of her cruise trips. It's finally going to get some use.

The small flame flickers and is about to be smothered by the time she returns to his side. The hardwood floors are new, but she hardly cares about potential long term damage when she tips the candle on its side to pour out the excess wax smothering the wick. The small clear pool hardens not too long afterward.

The flame lengthens, brightening up the corridor.

She can see a little better although the idea of having to stitch him up in near darkness makes her nervous. It hardly matters since she knows it's something she has to do or else risk having the coroner in her apartment first thing in the morning and she doesn't have a plausible story to tell.

She exhales sharply and pulls out one of the needles from the small case. Thankfully, it's already threaded so she doesn't have to fumble to do it.

She looks up to see their shadows dance on the blank wall. It's a silly whim she shakes off as she finally gets to work putting him back together.

She cleans up as much of the wound with antiseptic and vaguely wonders what his expression would be if conscious. A grimace is hard to visualize. There's no bullet as far as she can tell. Rather, the wound is consistent with the use of some sort of stabbing weapon. She starts to mentally flip through the possibility of weapons used in the fight.

His skin feels oddly elastic and firm at the same time. He's overly warm, probably running a fever.

Her hand comes to his side, holding him together. She carefully stabs through his flesh as she stitches the wound close.

A cold sweat breaks over her in the process. She takes small breaks, sometimes rolling her neck over her shoulders, other times studying the lines of his arm, his neck, the angle of his jaw.

It takes less than ten minutes to finish the procedure, but it leaves her deeply unsettled.

Gauze and medical tape are pressed against his skin.

She considers what to do next and winces at not having at least planned things a little better. Like how the floor is not where he should be spending the night, unexpected guest or not. There's the matter of his recent stitches and how rough movements will only open up those damned stitches.

She sighs forcibly.

She maneuvers one of the larger towels under his back and carefully drags him along the floor. It takes some work as she occasionally pauses to breathe.

He's finally away from the draft of the door and she's fairly certain his temperature's higher than normal. But there's no way she can haul him up on the couch without causing more damage.

Instead, she goes back for the remaining towels. She prays he doesn't wake up when she slides off his pants. She cringes when his feet fall heavily, thudding loudly on the floor.

World's worst caretaker, she dubs herself, groaning.

She goes back to the hallway to grope through the pile of towels she left there to find a dry one. She drapes it around her shoulders as she detours over to the kitchen counter and blindly searches for the bottle of whiskey her father gave her a gag gift when she first joined the force.

The unfamiliar shape comes under her fingers when she pulls it out of the bottom shelf. A glass is easier to find next to the sink.

She has no real way of seeing the amount of liquid filling up the glass, so when it overflows and drips on her bare toes, she swears some more before letting the excess pour down the sink. For good measure and partly out of annoyance, she lets more drain than originally intended.

In the end, she winds up with barely enough to swallow.

She doesn't really mind it, especially with the unpleasant burn in her throat.

Reluctantly, she goes back and proceeds to carefully dry him. His feet are freezing and she quickly moves up his legs and torso until reaching his face and then spending a considerable amount of time on his hair. They're somewhat close enough to the candle's flickering light that she can study the angles of his face so closely. It's a rare opportunity and she savors the moment by allowing her fingers to comb through his damp hair. When her hand accidentally travels over his temple, she's struck by the insistent warmth he emits.

Then she remembers how he's running a damn fever and she needs to get a move on covering him up.

She's off and running again into her room this time to collect the thickest comforter she uses in winter and an extra pillow. It's a challenge to find things in the dark, but she manages to find the items by touch alone before dragging everything with her.

The comforter is spread out and folded in half to provide him some cushion underneath. She half drags, half shoves him onto it before sliding a pillow under his head and neatly layers him with several sheets.

He's still breathing by the time she's done tucking his feet under the covers and it's good enough for her.

She decides to have another drink before collapsing on the couch. It takes her some time to doze off in a fitful sleep and every time she opens her eyes, she sees him lying there in the pale daylight.

When she finally gets up, she feels warm from being bundled up in her favorite quilt. Funny, she doesn't remember pulling that one out last night.

She looks down at the familiar spot beside the couch. He's nowhere to be found.

Typical.

Even if he did just stay over one night, it seems totally in character. But she smiles sleepily to herself, satisfied to know he isn't dead in some random ditch.


End file.
